


Let’s Exchange The Experience

by ElphieRix



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amputation, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Background Michelle “MJ” Jones/Peter Parker, Endgame Fix-It, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt Morgan Stark, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, I Mean He Dies First But He Lives, I’d Like To Formally Apologise For That Joke, Mild Graverobbing, Mystery, No Beta We Die Like (Iron) Men, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Peter Parker is the best big brother, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Some Real Traumatic Injuries, Time Travel, Tony Stark Lives, a little bit of a, morgan stark does what she wants, temporary canon character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-03-27 14:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19014643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElphieRix/pseuds/ElphieRix
Summary: “I know exactly what happened,” says Morgan, and Peter blinks and starts and stares at her. No five-year-old should sound that cold. “Daddy loved you almost as much as he loves me,” she continues. Her little hands are balled into fists and the set of her jaw as she glares up at him looks like a rooftop and an argument andI wanted you to be better. “You were gone, now he’s gone. He swapped himself for you, but I don’t wantyou. I want my Daddy. You aren’t worth my Daddy.”***In the aftermath of Tony’s death, Peter can’t blame Morgan for hating him. It doesn’t stop him loving his new honorary little sister.Then his world is turned on its head yet again, and Peter is left with a series of impossible choices.ORPete and Mo fuck around with magic and time travel.





	1. One

“I know exactly what happened,” says Morgan, and Peter blinks and starts and stares at her. No five-year-old should sound that cold. “Daddy loved you almost as much as he loves me,” she continues. Her little hands are balled into fists and the set of her jaw as she glares up at him looks like a rooftop and an argument and _I_ _wanted you to be better_. “You were gone, now he’s gone. He swapped himself for you, but I don’t want _you_. I want my Daddy. You aren’t worth my Daddy.”

 

Peter’s mouth opens involuntarily, and then closes, and then opens again. Afternoon sun streams through the big windows of the lake house and warms his shoulders as he sits at the kitchen table with Tony Stark’s daughter looking at him with real hate in her eyes. Any minute now Pepper will be back from the store with the orange juice she promised them.

 

Morgan had bided her time, waiting until she was certain her mother had left before abandoning her toys on the rug and advancing on Peter, laying the blame for Tony’s death squarely at his feet. It’s almost a relief. She’s the only person telling him the truth.

 

He hears Pepper’s footsteps in the hall and leans towards Morgan.

 

“I know,” he whispers. “You’re right.”

 

Morgan frowns and then nods. Again Peter sees the expression on another face.

 

“I’m not old enough, but you are,” she says. “Bring my Daddy back. Work it out or just swap back. Go away again so he can come home.”

 

Peter nods solemnly as Pepper opens the door.

 

“Whatever it takes,” he says.

 

Pepper enters the room empty handed and looks almost surprised to see Peter there. He smiles weakly at her.

 

“Orange juice...” she says softly. “I left it in the car.”

 

Morgan’s bottom lip trembles as her mother leaves again. “Mommy doesn’t forget things,” she says, her dark eyes shiny with held-back tears.

 

It’s pure instinct that moves Peter to pick her up and hug her. Morgan hits him.

 

Then there’s a scream from outside and Peter doesn’t stop to put her down before he’s running.

 

He jerks to a halt steps away from the front door. There’s a smell of iron and meat from the other side and the sound of Pepper murmuring rapidly into her phone, her voice strained with desperation.

 

Peter turns and Morgan immediately starts struggling in his arms. Her sharp elbows and feet dig into his sides hard enough to bruise even Spider-Man.

 

“I wanna see! Let me see! Mommy! Let go I wanna see my Mommy!”

 

“Your mother is not in danger, Little Boss,” says FRIDAY, and Peter breathes a sigh of relief as Morgan stops fighting him. He’d been so afraid of hurting her. “But you might be if you continue with this behaviour.”

 

Morgan pouts. “Sorry, FRI,” she says, not looking very sorry at all.

 

“It’s not me you need to apologise to.” The AI sounds for all the world like a big sister telling off her naughty sibling. It’s one of the weirdest things Peter has ever experienced.

 

Now Morgan looks downright mutinous. “Sorry, Peter,” she says. Peter wonders how it’s possible for a five-year-old to apologise and so clearly convey _fuck you_. He suspects that comes from Pepper.

 

She seethes quietly as he carries her up to her bedroom. It’s with a faint sense of surprise that Peter realises he loves her completely. This angry, sad little girl who hasn’t spoken a single pleasant word to him has somehow found the backdoor key to his heart and made herself comfortable inside. Maybe it’s because she’s so like Tony. Maybe it’s because her hurt is his hurt. Whatever the reason, Peter knows he will follow her to the end of the universe to keep her safe.

 

He leaves her sitting on her bed, arms and legs folded, glaring at him like he’d just told her he doesn’t believe in Tinkerbell.

 

“FRIDAY?” asks Peter. “How long can you keep her distracted in there for?”

 

“If she’s determined to get out? Twenty minutes.”

 

“That’ll have to do,” says Peter, jumping down the stairs in two easy leaps.

 

He sprints to the end of the hall and opens the door and there is War Machine landing next to Pepper who is kneeling on the floor beside-

 

And there is Dr Strange and the light and sparks of a portal leading to a hospital and doctors and nurses preparing a stretcher to lift-

 

And there are Happy and May, arriving in the middle of the chaos because now is when they were supposed to be picking Peter up and instead they’re seeing-

 

And there is blood. Blood across the ground and soaked into Pepper’s clothes and covering Tony, living breathing unconscious Tony, lying pale and motionless and still in his suit but _alivealivealive_ on the stretcher.

 

And then he’s carried through to the hospital and Pepper and Rhodey follow him and Peter is left with a choice and then May looks at him and he chooses.

 

Peter ducks through the portal just as it closes.

 

***

 

Hospitals are the worst for smells. Peter is periodically hit by the reek of blood or urine or infection or worse, and the whole terrible miasma is constantly drenched in the overwhelming scent of antiseptic. It’s a stabbing pressure at his temples the entire time he waits.

 

Pepper and Rhodey wait with him. None of them talk. Peter is certain that the other two are just as afraid as he is that this is all some big trick. The worst episode of _Punk’d_ of all time. They watched Tony die. They’d all seen the light leave his eyes. They’d all wondered if saving the universe was really worth it. They’d each thrown a handful of dirt into Tony’s grave.

 

The moment any one of them speaks might be the moment the spell breaks, and Tony isn’t at the end of the hall having surgery anymore. Tony hadn’t miraculously shown up on his own front doorstep three months after his funeral. Tony hadn’t pulled of this one last greatest surprise.

 

Peter is certain Pepper and Rhodey are thinking that too.

 

So no one talks.

 

Rhodey taps his foot and the metal of his braces makes it a sharp staccato rap against the hard plastic floor tile. Pepper chews on her lip until it’s bloody. Peter is concentrating on breathing. He seems to have forgotten how. If he doesn’t make a conscious effort to move air in and out of his lungs his throat closes up and his chest freezes.

 

It’s actually a welcome distraction.

 

Every so often his phone will buzz in his pocket. Each little vibration against his leg is a reminder that he’s loved, by May or Ned or MJ or Happy or any number of others. Peter suddenly understands Morgan intimately. He doesn’t want their love. The only affection in all the world, in all the universe, that he has any interest in is the gentle gruffness of Tony Stark.

 

The waiting room eats up all sense of time passing. The analog clock on the wall is stopped at sixteen minutes past six, and the second hand makes small jerking movements as it stays stuck in place.

 

In the artificial fluorescent light, everyone looks sick. Pepper and Rhodey are no different. The lights cast their skin as dull and waxy. Peter has just begun to wonder if he should attempt to persuade Pepper to sleep when the door swings open and an unfamiliar surgeon in green scrubs is followed into the room by Dr Strange.

 

Pepper shoots to her feet. “Dr Wu?” she says, somewhere between a plea for information and a greeting.

 

“Mrs Stark,” replies Dr Wu, then darts a glance at Peter.

 

“He should hear,” Pepper says quickly.

 

The surgeon takes a deep breath. Next to him, Dr Strange wears an expression carefully crafted to give nothing away but a vague sense of sympathy.

 

“He’s stable for now, but Tony’s heart physically isn’t strong enough to beat without assistance,” says Dr Wu bluntly. “And with the state his chest is in, a transplant simply wouldn’t be viable.”

 

Peter’s own chest feels horribly tight. He can see Pepper swaying slightly, only kept steady by Rhodey’s solid hand on her shoulder. She holds her trembling fingers over her mouth and nods minutely along as Dr Wu talks.

 

“I’ve known Tony for a long time, I’ve seen him beat astronomical odds. I don’t want to watch him die, which he will,” he says, his composure slipping slightly.

 

Peter’s heart drops into his stomach and he imagines he can feel it begin to be digested by the acid there, but Pepper seems to appreciate the surgeon’s forthrightness. Her arms drop to her sides as her spine straightens and her chin rises defiantly.

 

“Or he would have done. I hope you can understand, Mrs Stark- _Pepper_. That man deserves to live.”

 

“ _What did you do?_ ” says Pepper in her most dangerous voice, the cold and quiet one.

 

“His pacemaker has been replaced with a modified version, which runs off a re-implanted arc reactor. The procedure was invasive and risky and will require a long convalescence but it worked.” Dr Wu sounds like he’s justifying his actions to himself just as much as he is to Pepper.

 

“The reactor’s back in and he’ll live? He’s _alive_? That’s it?” Pepper’s incredulity almost sounds angry.

 

Peter finds himself looking around for hidden cameras again. The universe simply doesn’t grant wishes like this.

 

“He has extensive scarring on his right side and there’s possible reduced mobility in that arm. He’ll never be as he was, there’ll be significant physical limitations. But otherwise it’s likely he’ll make a full recovery.”

 

Pepper makes a funny little gasping sound and collapses into a chair. Rhodey hadn’t moved a muscle throughout the entire conversation, but now he slowly drops the raised hand that had been gripping Pepper’s shoulder to rest on his braces. They look at each other. Then Pepper is sobbing and flinging herself at Rhodey who is laughing and laughing and laughing.

 

“Son of a bitch,” repeats Rhodey between peals of hysterics. “That son of a bitch.”

 

Peter has been hit by a similar wave of relief. It surges up out of the pit of his stomach and makes him shiver. The horrible cocktail of emotions he’s been suppressing is suddenly pushing its way up his throat.

 

Literally.

 

He’s literally going to throw up.

 

He grabs a garbage can and heaves. All he brings up is bile and shitty hospital coffee but his face is wet with tears by the time he’s done. Pepper is rubbing soothing circles on his back and Peter takes several long breaths.

 

Tony is alive. Peter won’t believe it until he sees him.

 

Dr Strange clears his throat.

 

The muttered conversation between Rhodey and Dr Wu about the chances of Tony waking from his coma anytime soon stops. Pepper’s hand freezes on Peter’s back.

 

“I ran some tests,” says Dr Strange, and hesitates.

 

“And?” Pepper’s voice is imperious. She doesn’t like Dr Strange.

 

“It was definitely a magical resurrection. As far as I can tell it only healed the direct cause of death, meaning Tony has no radiation damage but retained his other injuries. A spell like that has a cost, but is probably not fatal to the caster. Probably.”

 

“What exactly are you saying?” snaps Rhodey.

 

Pepper has gone very pale.

 

“I’m saying that someone, at some point in the timeline, traded an awful lot to bring Tony back here.” Then Dr Strange stops and does something Peter’s never seen him do before. His whole body sags and he runs a hand over his face. “When he arrived there was a lot of blood. It wasn’t Tony’s.”

 

“Oh god,” murmurs someone, and Peter can’t be sure if it’s him, Pepper, or Rhodey.

 

“It was Morgan’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first of three endgame fixits i have planned. i love that the fandom has immediately gone “peter and morgan bros 4 lyfe”, but what if pain instead?
> 
> morgan is my new fave. i adore her so much it’s ridiculous. all of my fixits are pretty morgan centric. so yeah buckle up for that
> 
> the title is from “running up that hill” by kate bush cause that’s a goddamn bop
> 
> this first chapter is going up on tony’s birthday, so this is my weird way of celebrating. happy birthday tones my love!
> 
> EDIT: i forgot to add my customary shameless pleading for comments so here goes: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment. i live for the validation i really do


	2. Two

“On a scale of one to Dad that time Harley borrowed a suit, started a small war, and nearly died all in like three hours, how mad are you?”

 

Peter stands in his workshop and stares at Morgan, at the tools she used to break in, at the files displayed around her, at everything they’d kept from her about Tony’s death and mysterious resurrection nearly eleven years ago glowing accusingly in the air surrounding them. She’s wearing her _I’m not sorry_ face.

 

“I’m not mad, Mo,” he says. “I figured this was pretty inevitable. Honestly I’m kinda scared.”

 

“Okay, _Spider-Man_ ,” Morgan scoffs. “You’re gonna shit your pants when I tell you I’ve figured it out. I know exactly what happened.”

 

Peter’s mouth goes dry. Morgan has the capacity to terrify him in ways even the most menacing super villain never will.

 

“And I know exactly what needs to happen,” she says with a kind of brittle exuberance, staring at him with wide dark eyes. Tony’s eyes. Peter can’t help but notice the shake in her hands and the purplish rings under those eyes.

 

That’s when he sees the spellbook. Its age and state of disrepair make it incongruous in the sleek, cutting-edge workshop. The rest of the table is cluttered with notes and tools left by both him and Morgan, but enough space for it to lie flat has been cleared. Flat, and open to a page of dense text in an unfamiliar language accompanied by a gory illustration of a woman ripping out her own tongue. He remembers the blood, all that blood, all Morgan’s blood.

 

“Morgan, this is... I won’t tell your parents, but you have to know I can’t help,” he says.

 

Her face falls. “But you promised. You said _whatever it takes_.” She pauses, then adds desperately “And I’ll do it on my own if I have to!”

 

It’s true. Morgan can think circles around Peter, even Tony and Shuri sometimes have trouble following her when she really gets going. If she decides to do it on her own he will not be able to stop her.

 

“Mo,” he says gently. “Have you read them all?”

 

“Oh! That! No!” says Morgan, her hands flying through the projected files, closing some and expanding others, manipulating the holograms more fluidly than anyone but Tony. She pulls up a row of charts. “Look, see!” She blinks expectantly at him but Peter can’t make any sense of them. Morgan gives a familiar groan. “ _Look_.” Her finger traces the line of a graph. “It was less than two pints. That’s not fatal blood loss! I’ll be fine!”

 

For someone so smart, Morgan really can be a dumbass sometimes. Peter decides then and there that he doesn’t actually have a choice. He’s going to help her. He’s going to do everything in his power to prove her right. It’s his responsibility.

 

She _will_ be fine.

 

***

 

When she entered his workshop that morning, Morgan was wearing a pretty floral floaty top. Now she is wearing a pretty floral floaty top with an additional arresting pattern of grease stains. In the time since Peter had agreed to let his workshop be the home of their super secret retroactively-save-Tony-Stark project, Morgan has ruined several outfits in this way. She’s also torn, burnt, and on one memorable occasion dissolved parts of both her own clothes and Peter’s.

 

So obviously, he really _really_ loves working with Morgan. Her mind moves so fast it’s no wonder things like lab safety get left behind, and her joy as she creates wonders with her own two hands is infectious. There’s an innocence there he doesn’t see in anyone else. She just _builds_ without the pressure of guilt or obligation or self-imposed restrictions. So Peter can’t truly be blamed for getting caught up in the fun of it all and letting the reason they’re doing this drop to the back of his brain.

 

But then comes the day Morgan stands in his workshop in her pretty floral floaty top with its new pattern of grease stains and just says “Okay.”

 

“Okay?” says Peter, crossing over to her workbench.

 

“This is it. No Pym Particles. No Quantum Tunnel. Just time travel.”

 

Peter stares down at the three little bracelets in front of them. They’re almost dainty, but they glow arc reactor blue.

 

“Holy shit,” he says.

 

Morgan grins lopsidedly. “That’s pretty much what Dad said when he cracked it the first time.”

 

Ice creeps up Peter’s spine. This is the moment in the movie where the montage is over and the smiles stop. He puts a hand on each of Morgan’s shoulders and turns her to face him.

 

“We need a plan,” he says firmly. “One that doesn’t end with you getting hurt or killed.”

 

Morgan rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.

 

A tense moment stretches out between them as they stare at each other.

 

“Okay, Pete,” Morgan says. Her voice is suddenly small, like she’s been struck by how far she’s in over her head. She’s not much older than Peter was when he started in this whole superhero business. Not for the first time, he mentally apologises to Tony. He gets it now. “What’s the plan, Spider-Man?” asks Morgan.

 

Peter doesn’t know.

 

Yet.

 

***

 

Peter’s mental checklist of things he’d be crucified for if Tony and Pepper actually knew about them is getting so long he’s losing track. Morgan’s suit is definitely near the top of the list though. He hears her make a whooping sound that breaks into wild laughter as she does a few lazy cartwheels midair.

 

She’d built it herself, in complete secret, without access to Tony’s designs, stealing materials where she could. It’s a masterpiece.

 

“Come on!” Morgan yells over the comms, and streaks off ahead. Soon she’s a distant red-and-gold blur.

 

Peter swears and wobbles in the air as he tries to speed up. Harley had eagerly offered him his suit the moment Peter implied he wanted to attempt to impress MJ, and he’d be grateful if he didn’t hate every second of it. It’s not like the Iron Spider, the thick metal blocks his ability to stick, and if the power suddenly failed he couldn’t shoot out a web and catch himself.

 

Far off on the horizon, Morgan is doing backwards loop-the-loops as she waits for him to catch up. Peter pulls himself together. He can be afraid later.

 

Or rather, he needs to get the things he’s afraid of in the right order. His discomfort with the suit is nothing when he’s flying with the girl who is for all intents and purposes his little sister, to the remote cave in the Canadian Rockies that’s apparently the only place on this continent where their plan will work, in order to perform a ritual which is far too unclear for his liking. Peter decides that hating Harley’s suit is actually borderline relaxing compared to worrying about all that.

 

He finally gets the hang of increasing his speed and the mountains come into view in the distance. The rising sun has set their snowy peaks on fire, scattering its light in pinks and oranges and glaring into Peter’s eyes. Morgan’s shape has been lost somewhere in the cacophony of colour, but he can see her location marker blinking on his HUD. She’s already landed, somewhere just above the treeline, and must be searching for the cave on foot. 

 

Peter feels the urge to slow down again as the mountains rare up in front of him, far too close now. As he begins the long slow swooping descent his stomach launches itself up into his throat and stays there. It’s hard to tell if it’s the flight or what’s coming next that’s the problem.

 

He stumbles as he lands heavily next to Morgan. She’s inspecting a narrow gap in the mountainside and doesn’t acknowledge his arrival.

 

“I think this is it,” she says after a few minutes of scanning. Her voice has an odd distorted, layered quality as Peter hears it muffled by the wind and their helmets as well as clearly over the comms.

 

“We can use our replusors to widen it-” begins Peter, lifting an arm in preparation.

 

“No! We can’t do anything that might affect the spell! If it has to be this specific cave what if it has to be exactly as it is? We can’t risk it!” Morgan speaks so quickly Peter barely has time to start lowering his hand in response before she’s pushing it down.

 

“Mo, we’re not gonna fit through there in our suits, especially with this.” Peter motions to the cooler strapped to his back.

 

“So we leave them,” says Morgan. “Come _on_.”

 

Peter knows it won’t work. He knows whatever he says will be useless. He knows he’ll never change her mind. He also knows he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t try.

 

“We don’t have to do this now. We can wait, you can wait. I _know_ there are plans to tell you when you’re older. Morgan, you’ve figured out the hard bit. Your time travel, it can be whenever! This spell, this sacrifice, it doesn’t have to be now. This might not even be the right spell. You could find the real one decades from now. There’s so much we don’t know! Mo, _please_.”

 

Morgan turns to look at him, her mask still closed. Peter wishes he could see her face. He retracts his own helmet and the frigid mountain air stings his skin, but it’s important that she sees the desperation and the love written across his expression.

 

“I’m not living the rest of my life with this hanging over my head,” Morgan says, hard and determined but with an unquestionable waver that twists at Peter’s chest. 

 

The smallest most childish part of him, the part that doesn’t care that he’s a nearly twenty-seven year old superhero with a job and an apartment and a complicated on-off relationship with the girl of his dreams, cries out for May. She’d know what to say to Morgan. How to get her to stop without her ending up hating him again. He wants a real adult to intervene.

 

“Please,” repeats Peter simply.

 

Morgan retracts her faceplace. “Fuck, that’s cold,” she says, her tone light but her eyes screaming. Then her jaw clenches, like she’s trapping something behind her teeth, and she exhales hard through her nose. She’s trembling. “Don’t make me do this on my own.”

 

Well shit.

 

Peter is reminded again that he doesn’t really have a choice in this.

 

“Fine,” he says, and steps out of Harley’s suit.

 

***

 

They leave the suits in sentry mode. Or at least, Morgan’s suit is in sentry mode. Harley’s suit is coded in his esoteric way that Peter still hasn’t completely got the hang of, so his suit is _probably_ in sentry mode. 

 

Things would be so much easier if they were nanotech, but Tony guards that technology almost as fiercely as Shuri does, and even Morgan can’t make something with absolutely no materials. Considering what the two of them are doing right now, Tony definitely has a point when it comes to responsibility and maturity and _the right tools in the right hands_.

 

As they slide sideways between the damp cave walls Peter’s head starts getting crowded. Morgan pushes confidently onward, spell book clutched to her chest with one hand, the other stretched out into the dark before them. She’d seemed relatively unconcerned when every light they’d tried to take with them winked out after the first couple of feet, shrugging a shoulder and muttering something about magic under her breath. In her mind there’s a golden vision of the future that Peter isn’t privy to and her resolve to bring it into reality is cast iron. It’s foolhardy and completely _teenaged_ and he’s so very jealous.

 

A drop of water from the cave roof lands on the back of his neck. It trickles under the collar of his shirt and traces a freezing path down his spine, like the drag of a cold, jagged fingernail.

 

Lacking Morgan’s assurance, he’s left with only the scrape of stone against his back, and all the weight of the mountain pressed and poised mere feet above his head. Peter adjusts his grip on the cooler and tries not to think about the far too many times he’s been pinned like a butterfly under rock and rubble. If he closes his eyes he can see the flash of metal wings and hear the groans of masonry crumbling as if it’s no stronger than that Greek cheese May likes in salads.

 

The tunnel floor slopes slightly downwards. Peter follows Morgan ever deeper into the mountain. It’s so dark. Even with his enhanced vision it’s hard to see her small figure just ahead. He has to hold back a cry when she suddenly vanishes into the blank black wall.

 

“There’s a turn!” Her shout rings through the tunnel. “It’s tight but Pete you gotta see this!”

 

There’s a rocky outcrop at perfect crotch height when Peter eases his way around the turn. His world goes white with pain and he drops the cooler, dislodging the lid and sending the iron-and-plastic tang of bagged blood straight to his nostrils. After a couple of truly unpleasant moments, he manages to retrieve and reseal the cooler, and finally squeeze through the turn and out into the large, echoing cave.

 

He leaves it by the tunnel entrance and looks around for Morgan. She’s still, a rarity for her, and contemplating the distant cave roof...

 

Somewhere high, high up the cave is open to the early morning light. It pours in thickly to be caught and refracted by numerous small, blue crystals lining the walls. The brightness is too much for Peter’s enhanced eyesight. He looks instead at Morgan. Her face is tilted upwards and bathed in blue. The colour reflects in the darkness of her wide, wondering eyes and her mouth hangs slightly open. In her joy, she’s head to toe Tony. When he transfers his gaze back to the glittering cave, Morgan’s delight makes it even more breathtaking.

 

“Just… _wow_ , right?” she whispers. Morgan has never carried the compulsion to lower her voice in churches and temples like Peter does, but her tone is filled with reverence now.

 

They stand and stare at the splendor for several seconds. 

 

Peter can feel the many little cuts and gashes gifted to him by the tunnel walls being knitted together by his healing factor. It almost feels faster than normal. Morgan is similarly scraped, but despite her painfully slow natural healing rate she seems unbothered. Or, at least, distracted.

 

His spider-sense is going wild. Not necessarily in a bad way, but there’s a constant buzzing at the edges of his consciousness, reminding him that this is unnatural, this is new, this is unknown. There’s danger here.

 

In the centre of the cave there’s a strange stone table. Peter can’t tell if it’s an organic formation, or if hundreds of hands, thousands of years ago, carved it out of the mountainside then rolled it together into place. He swallows, throat suddenly sandpaper. That’s where Tony needs to be.

 

Morgan takes a deep breath, brows drawing tightly downwards and lips pinching into a thin pink line. She fiddles with the glowing bracelet on her wrist.

 

“Let’s do it,” she says.

 

Her words reverberate around the cave.

 

***

 

“Fuck,” says Morgan, staring into the open coffin.

 

She’s got mud up to her elbows and on the knees of her jeans, and there’s even a streak of gravedirt across her forehead. Her hands hang limply by her sides as she looks at her father’s body.

 

Tony is small in his redheart coffin. Peter recognises the red and gold embroidered suit he’s wearing from his wedding photos. The dark burns streaking across the waxy skin of his face make Peter’s stomach clench and churn.

 

They’re in the past, the day after Tony’s funeral. Morgan’s little time travel bracelets worked perfectly, because of course they did. They’re in the past and they’re standing in Tony Stark’s grave. Last night he called Peter and teased him for half an hour about MJ and he hated it and he loved it and now he’s inches away from Tony’s corpse.

 

He reaches out a filthy hand and pulls Morgan in for a reassuring half-hug. “Yeah, I know,” he murmurs into her hair. “But we’re bringing him back.”

 

“Oh,” says Morgan. “Yeah, no, obviously that. It’s rough. But when Mom found him he was wearing the Mark 85. That isn’t the Mark 85.”

 

Peter frowns. “Does it really matter?”

 

“ _Yes_ ! If things aren’t exactly as we remember them, exactly as they happened in our past, then the lock on our timeline crumbles and it breaks out of isolation, creating multiple alternate timelines, which all affect the stability of our timeline, so we might not be able to get home, and then we’ll still have to do this all again, which just creates more opportunities for more fuckups and then _we won’t save Dad_!” Morgan speaks increasingly fast and her voice gets increasingly higher pitched and ah, there’s the strain Peter knew this must be taking on her truly showing.

 

“Okay, alright, okay. We’ll figure something out.”

 

The something turns out to be another timejump, and Peter sneaking into the lakehouse to retrieve the suit Tony was wearing when he died. After a heated debate (which -as always- Morgan had won) they’d decided that the most inconspicuous and least potential paradox or alternate timeline inducing moment to steal it would be just after Tony’s apparent resurrection.

 

He materialises in the room that will be declared his bedroom less than an hour after Tony gets home from the hospital. The walls are the same familiar shade of blue and his bed and dresser are there but otherwise it’s eerily empty. 

 

Peter takes a minute to shake himself out like a wet dog. Time travel makes his body feel strangely stretched and sticky. He resolutely doesn’t think about its potential effects on his radiation soaked cells. Bringing Tony back is probably worth the risk of super-cancer or growing an extra pair of arms or two.

 

Taking a deep breath, Peter jumps lightly and sticks to the ceiling. He scuttles towards the door and opens it with the same lift-and-shift trick to stop it creaking that he’s been using for years. He slips through and it swings shut silently behind him.

 

In the hallway, he is suddenly struck by the grief pressed into every corner of the house. It makes the air hang heavy, pervading every breath he takes. An ache builds in the back of Peter’s throat and his eyes sting. He remembers this. He doesn’t want to relive this.

 

Peter scrubs a hand over his face then drags it through his hair.

 

“You’re old,” accuses a voice from the floor and Peter nearly falls off the ceiling.

 

He looks down. Almost directly under him stands Morgan Stark, five years old and staring at him with an expression halfway between calculating and scrutinising.

 

Oh fuck.

 

“You’re Peter but you’re old,” she adds disapprovingly.

 

Peter drops and flips to land crouched in front of her. He brings a finger to his lips and whispers “Yeah, it’s me. But you can’t tell anyone. I’m on a secret Spider-Man mission.”

 

Morgan’s face wrinkles up. Peter finds himself holding his breath. She’d taken quite a while to warm up to him at this age. All it would take is one short scream… Then her mouth breaks into a bright and brilliant smile. It’s a little dazzling, and a little lopsided like Tony’s is when he means it.

 

“I know exactly what you’re doing,” she says. “You’re going to save Daddy.”

 

Oh _fuck_.

 

“Mo, Morgan, Mo, you can’t- You can’t tell anyone about this,” says Peter. His heart has sunk down past his stomach and is moping around somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. He’s fucked this up. He’s fucked everything up completely and to top it off he’s asking a small child to keep a secret from her parents, universally recognised as a bad move.

 

“I’m not _stupid_ ,” says Morgan. “You’re stupid if you think I wanna put your mission in danger.”

 

Peter stands up from his crouch. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I forgot what a smarty-pants you are.” He offers her his little finger. “Promise you won’t tell and I promise not to forget how clever you are?”

 

Morgan shakes her head. “Promise you meant it.”

 

He knows exactly what she needs him to have meant, and he’s already lived that promise. He’s already gone so much further than his conscience allows. He doesn’t know anymore if he’s doing it for Tony or for Morgan or for Peter Benjamin Parker. He doesn’t know if he’ll keep this promise or the one he made to himself when he decided to keep her safe.

 

But all those years and just minutes ago he’d said _whatever it takes_.

 

“Okay,” he says softly. “I promise.”

 

Morgan very solemnly locks pinkies with him and nods.

 

Then Peter hears the front door open and the frantic murmur of May and Happy trying to work out what to tell Morgan when they don’t know themselves what is happening. Happy asks FRIDAY where she is and Peter freezes, little finger still crooked as the girl pulls away. 

 

FRIDAY lies.

 

FRIDAY tells Happy that Morgan is still in her bedroom and Peter feels a wave of affection for the AI. She loves Tony too, of course she does. This is her _whatever is takes_.

 

Happy and May’s voices draw nearer to the bottom of the stairs.

 

“I suggest you go back to your room, Little Boss,” says FRIDAY quietly. “Mr Hogan is making his way upstairs.”

 

Morgan bites her lip in the way she still does at fifteen, in the way Pepper does, and darts down the hallway. She stops with her fingers on the doorhandle and looks back at Peter. Her eyes are wide and shiny and if she wasn’t biting into it her bottom lip would be trembling.

 

“Why was Mommy screaming?” she asks in a tiny voice.

 

She’s five years old.

 

Guilt crashes into the forefront of Peter’s mind and he curses his teenage self. He’d left a five-year-old alone with her mother’s scream still ringing in her ears.

 

“I’m sorry, Mo,” he says helplessly. “I don’t know what’s safe to tell you.”

 

Tears spill down her small face. “Is she coming back?”

 

Forgetting completely the sound of Happy’s footsteps on the stairs, Peter runs to her. He’ll always run to her. He crouches down again and wipes her wet cheeks gently with his thumbs. He’s surprised that she lets him.

 

“Hey,” says Peter. Morgan rubs the tears from her eyes with her fists until he softly tugs her hands away. He needs eye contact. He needs her to believe him. “She’s coming back. I know it’s scary right now, but it won’t be like this for long.”

 

Morgan blinks rapidly, clearly not comforted in the slightest, and pushes Peter away. “Uncle Happy is coming,” she says, voice wavering. “You need to go. Save my Daddy, big Peter.”

 

She hasn’t changed, not really. Peter watches her hold her head high as she walks into her bedroom and marvels at how strong and stubborn she’s always been. His little sister is the bravest kid in all the world.

 

It’s getting close to evening, so there are long shadows cast on the ceiling for Peter to leap into and hide in when Happy appears at the end of the hall. Over the years he’s had a lot of practice sneaking around the man, so sticking to his blindspots as he crawls above him comes naturally. Once he's downstairs, avoiding May is harder.

 

As he passes the open kitchen door, Peter catches the scent of the over-sugared tea May always makes to comfort herself. Peeking over the top of the doorframe, he sees her mechanically stirring a mug (it’s one of the ones Pepper calls Tony’s _dad mugs_ , with a weird joke Peter still doesn’t understand but figures is probably an innuendo on it). Steam rises from the drink and May’s shoulders start to shake. Peter aches to comfort her, even as part of him reels in shock. All those years ago he’d never once seen her cry over Tony.

 

He reminds himself of Morgan, teenage Morgan, waiting alone in a graveyard with her father’s dead body, and manages to tear himself away.

 

The safe is hidden behind a framed drawing of Morgan’s in the living room. It’s a childish version of the schematics for a safe, and it makes Tony grin and chuckle every time he looks at it. When Tony died, Peter was automatically granted access to its contents. When Tony comes home he’ll be locked out again, ostensibly for his own safety. For now, the scanner accepts his thumbprint and swings open to reveal several softly glowing nano-housing units.

 

There’s one edged in purple that must be Pepper’s Rescue suit, a much smaller one Peter doesn’t recognise, a handful of others, and the unmistakable slightly charred shape of the Mark 85. He’s had years with Tony since then, but after seeing his cold corpse all Peter can picture is the light of the reactor slowly stuttering out. The sound Pepper made once she was sure Tony was gone. The moment Rhodey couldn’t hold him up any longer and they both crumpled to the ashy floor. The solid sucking suffocating silence punctuated only by the occasional sob.

 

It’s a timely reminder of why he’s doing this. 

 

The housing unit is warm and hums barely perceptibly when Peter’s fingers close around it. He shuts the safe and it beeps as it locks. He’s done it. He did it. One more step of this stupid risky brilliant plan completed.

 

Morgan had programmed in the return coordinates earlier, so the graveyard and the Stark family plot is only a single button press away. Peter takes one last long look at the living room of a home that is still mourning, and tries to fill it with all the happy memories he’s gathered in the time since. Right now in a hospital somewhere his teenage self is sitting shell shocked, waiting for the moment Dr Wu rebuilds the world only for Dr Strange to shatter it again.

 

“I’ll keep her safe,” he promises the empty room in a whisper, and pushes the button.

 

***

 

There’s dirt under his fingernails. Under his fingernails and ground into his clothes and coating his skin and he’s fairly certain there’s dirt in his lungs too. Digging up the grave had been hard filthy work but somehow filling it back in over Tony’s now empty coffin is worse. Every part of his body is covered in a layer of death.

 

Morgan shoves soil into the hole with both hands as Peter uses the shovel. Her expression is familiar, he’d seen it before just hours ago on her five-year-old face as she struggled to hold back her tears. He watches out of the corner of his eye as her focus flicks frequently back to the headstone.

 

_Anthony Edward “Tony” Stark_

 

_1970-2023_

 

_Hero to all, loved by those who truly knew him._

 

_Iron Man_

 

It’s entirely possible that Morgan couldn’t remember Tony’s epitaph. It’s entirely possible those words aren’t burned into her soul like they are Peter’s. It’s entirely possible this is her first time seeing it. 

 

It’s entirely probable she’s not okay.

 

“Tony’s still decomposing out here,” says Peter, and winces at his own lack of tact.

 

“What?” Morgan says thickly.

 

“I mean, surely it’s better to get him back to the cave and get started instead of just having him rotting while we do this? Won’t it be easier if he’s… better preserved?”

 

Morgan stares at him. “I didn’t think of that,” she says, her voice small and soft and scared.

 

“Okay, so,” he says, more confidently than he feels. “You take him back and I’ll finish up here, and we’ll jump to the same point so we arrive at the same time. Then we bring him back.”

 

Morgan chews on her lip and twirls the end of her long dark braid around her finger nervously. Tony’s frown lines appear between her eyebrows as she considers it. Then her hand darts out and she grabs Peter’s wrist. He’s too startled to use his enhanced strength to stop her.

 

She fiddles with his timejump bracelet for a few long minutes, then looks up at him apprehensively and says “Okay, all the coordinates you’ll need are programmed in, just pick the right date.” By the time the sentence is finished her tone has regained its confidence.

 

She sets the date and location coordinates on the other two bracelets, and fastens the third onto Tony’s limp wrist. Grinning with relief up at Peter as she crouches by her Dad’s body, Morgan presses the button on both their bracelets. The word “Bye!” hangs in the air for several seconds after they disappear.

 

Peter takes a deep breath. This shouldn’t take long. Adjusting his grip on the shovel, he resumes shifting dirt back into the gaping hole of Tony’s grave.

 

He tries not to think about the dirt under his fingernails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof i’m sorry for the wait. on the upside this is a nice juicy long chapter so pls forgive me
> 
> i was actually planning on doing this fic in only three parts but this chapter turned into such a monster i chopped it in half and turns out it works better that way!
> 
> next chapter is where i earn the graphic depictions of violence tag. you have been warned
> 
> so yeah, thanks for reading and please please please comment!


	3. Three

Morgan had learnt two ancient languages in order to decipher the spellbook, and then had a small panic over its authenticity because _the languages predate paper so shouldn’t it be cuneiform, Pete?_  After a brief side adventure into carbon dating and experimenting with a few of the more harmless spells, she had eventually concluded that the spellbook’s bizarre Sumerian-with-some-Akkadian-phrasings-and-grammar-rules came as a result of wizards having always been unbearably pretentious.

 

Peter -of course- can’t read either, so when it comes time for him to participate in the spell Morgan hands him a scrap of paper with the words written out phonetically in her closest approximation of legible handwriting. He recites them faithfully, trying not to look at the disturbing sight of Tony’s corpse, lying on the stone table with their pre-prepared sacrifice arranged around him in little bags. 

 

The words of the spell are lilting, and Morgan’s voice is musical and confident. At times it sounds like she’s singing. Eventually she finishes the incantation and takes a long step back, dragging Peter with her by the back of his shirt.

 

They watch Tony’s chest, waiting for the rise and fall that means they’ve won.

 

Nothing happens.

 

Nothing happens.

 

Nothing happens.

 

Morgan lets out a small huff of air. “Well, worth a shot,” she says, stepping forward again and gathering up the bags of her blood.

 

Peter gapes at her. She has her back to him as she carefully layers the blood back into the cooler, and doesn’t seem upset at all. How the hell is she so blasé about them failing?

 

When she turns back to him her face is wrinkled up into her _I know you’re gonna be mad but hear me out and I’m sorry_ _but not enough not to have done it in the first place_ expression. It’s one of the ones she gets from Tony, which is why it always makes him soften.

 

“Peeeeeete...” she says, dragging the word out guiltily. “This wasn’t even Plan A, not really.”

 

Peter’s mind instantly flashes back to all that time gathering enough of Morgan’s blood for the supposed sacrifice. The way she had to look away every time as the needle entered her skin, but then she’d whip her head back around to watch in fascination as the clear tubes slowly filled with red. How pale and shaky she always was when it finished. Her insistence on taking more, more often, than was healthy. All that for… what, exactly? What, if not Plan A?

 

Well, there’s only one reason she wouldn’t tell him the real Plan A.

 

“Explain, Mo. Before I lose it completely and call Tony.”

 

Morgan bites her lip apprehensively and winds the end of her braid around and around her finger. She looks at the floor and not his face as she speaks. 

 

“I was hoping it would just need my blood, but I think it needs something more. Some physical part of me that defines who I am. I thought maybe the blood that makes me a Stark, but...” she trails off, glancing quickly up at Peter’s face and then back down to the smooth stone floor.

 

“No,” he says, planting the word like an oak. “I’ll do it.” 

 

He promised himself he would protect her. 

 

Morgan opens her mouth to argue, and what she actually said hits him. A physical part of him that defines who he is. His spider sense flares so intensely that it stings. 

 

“My powers,” he says numbly. “It’s gonna cost my powers.”

 

His first feeling is shame, because his first thought is that giving up his powers might be a relief. The shame stays as a sticky molasses undercurrent whilst Peter runs through the subsequent maelstrom of emotions. There’s horror, because how can he trade all the future lives Spider-Man might save for just one, but how can he weigh a hypothetical stranger against _Tony_? There’s guilt, so much guilt, because every decision now is going to be the wrong one. There’s confusion, because who is he without these powers? There’s temptation, because his life really would be easier, maybe better, if he were normal. There’s fear. There’s fear. There’s fear. All that and more rampaging through his brain at once as Morgan stares right through him with blue light reflecting in her dark irises.

 

Peter narrows his eyes at her in suspicion. She doesn’t look away, but something in her expression tells him there’s something more to it. Somewhere, there’s another lie.

 

“What are you not telling me, Mo?” he asks, in a pitiful attempt to distract himself from the decision.

 

She raises her chin and steadfastly maintains eye contact. “ _I’ll_ do it,” she says, her voice fierce. “I’ll give up-”

 

“No way am I letting you do this,”’ says Peter. That’s the only thing he’s sure of. “And if it’s gonna cost Spider-Man…” He shakes his head. “I help people. I _save_ people. I don’t know if- Maybe this isn’t the answer.”

 

Morgan’s face goes very rigid. “You wanna know what I think?” she says tightly. 

 

She has him pinned beneath her gaze like some kind of biologist’s specimen, and Peter just knows that whatever she has to say isn’t going to be kind. She’s wearing the press-mask she stole from her father’s arsenal and her familiar features are hard and expressionless. Peter nods for her to continue. It’s all he can do.

 

Morgan takes a deep breath. It wavers a little. “You’re choosing between Spider-Man and _Iron Man_. That makes things pretty obvious. Spider-Man’s never saved the universe. Dad’s retired but his tech since the Blip has still saved more people than you have. It’s a no brainer.”

 

It is a no brainer. It’s also a twisting of the truth, and crueler than Morgan’s ever been. Peter looks down at her. At the hands trembling by her sides and the thing he can’t identify hiding behind her mask. He doesn’t know what she’s thinking, but he knows her. She wants to help. She endlessly wants to help. She wants to save everyone, and she’s still young enough and smart enough to think she can. And she’ll say anything to save her father.

 

Peter chooses to do what he’s always done. He chooses to trust her.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?” repeats Morgan breathlessly. The mask drops and she’s a teenager again, hopeful and uncertain and scared. “Okay,” she says again, gathering herself.

 

She grabs the note with Peter’s portion of the spell on it and consults the spellbook as she scribbles several extra lines for him to say. He watches her bite her lip as she writes, eyes darting across the page. Something in him seems to have come detached from his surroundings, he’s a hot air balloon rising unmanned up into the clouds, never to be seen again. Again, he wishes May were with him.

 

Or Tony. He wants Tony to take charge. He wants Tony’s guiding hand on his shoulder. He hasn’t felt this desperate for instruction on a mission in _years_.

 

Peter looks at the corpse on the table. Tony _is_ here.

 

That settles it then.

 

This time, when they speak the spell, the words fall out naturally from Peter’s mouth. His voice is just as melodic and assured as Morgan’s. It feels like someone else is moving his lips and tongue and teeth for him.

 

This time, dread is pressed into every corner of his heart.

 

This time, he can hear the hum of something wild and ancient thrumming through the mountain, cresting towards them. He holds his breath as it crashes down.

 

Peter falls to his knees as a sickening drag on every cell of his body overwhelms him, but he keeps his head up and his eyes on Tony. It _hurts_ when his legs meet the hard stone, so much more than it would have mere seconds ago. Tony’s chest still isn’t moving, his skin still carries the pallor of death, and Peter feels fear wire itself tightly into his lower jaw. It has to work.

 

Then Morgan screams, and it’s the only sound in the world that would stop Peter watching Tony for any sign of life. He turns his head in panic (and even that feels weaker, slower, more clumsy) to see her hands fall away from her wrists. It happens slowly, like a feather drifting lazily through the air, and they land next to Tony on the stone table, fingers still slightly twitching. There’s no blade or force, it’s like the end of that creepy kids book where the man unties the ribbon around his wife’s throat and her head just falls off, except that there’s blood and blood and blood and blood. All over Tony, Morgan, the table, the floor. Every moment there’s more and Peter feels it hot and wet and starting to soak into his pants.

 

Morgan sways on her feet, pale like porcelain, and, as she stares at something straight ahead of her, her face breaks into a manic smile. Then her eyes roll back into her head and she crumples to the ground.

 

Nausea tugs at Peter’s stomach but he crawls towards her, blood sticking to his palms. It seems to take an age for him to reach her, without his enhancements he’s fragile and shaking, and when he does it takes another age for him to locate her pulse. It’s surprisingly strong, but Peter shudders at the bloody fingerprints he’s left on her thin neck.

 

“Mo, Mo, Mo,” he chants, cradling her face in his hands. “How could you be so _stupid_?”

 

He knows why. He’d seen the flush of life return to Tony’s cheeks as his daughter’s blood splashed over him. He’d seen that long first breath that had filled Morgan with such joy even as she passed out.

 

Peter’s found the lie, far too late. The spell always required two sacrifices, and Morgan always knew that. Maybe if he wasn’t watching her die he’d manage to feel betrayed.

 

Snot leaks out of his nose and burning tears drench his cheeks as he rocks her body back and forth. He doesn’t know if he’s angrier with her for doing this, for lying and for planning to do this all along, or himself for falling for it and failing and breaking the one promise he needed to keep. His sobs break into moans and breathing becomes an insurmountable challenge.

 

She’s bleeding _so much_.

 

This is it, the worse case scenario is happening. The Empire has won, the Wall has fallen, Voldemort just killed Harry in the Forbidden Forest, Morgan Stark is bleeding out in his arms. All that anticipation, all that fear, all the ways he tried to avoid this, all insignificant. 

 

Peter takes a steadying breath. It actually makes things very simple.

 

The right date and location is already programmed into the bracelets, so it’s a matter of moments to transport Tony’s unconscious body onto the lakehouse driveway for Pepper to find, all those years ago. Peter feels a pang as he leaves him there, but it’s all in the past, he remembers Tony being fine. It’s fine.

 

Then it’s back to the present and to Morgan. He’s not strong anymore but he still has his webshooters, so it’s not hard to fashion tourniquets for her wrists and seal over the stumps -if he doesn’t think about what the stumps are he’s fine- with his webs. He thinks he remembers May telling him to elevate wounds like this once, so Peter does that too. When he’s done, Morgan isn’t bleeding so much anymore. So that’s fine.

 

Then there’s worming his way through the gap in the rock, back to their suits. Peter’s mind is scalpel-thin, there’s no room for any other thoughts beside those that will save Morgan, save Morgan, save Morgan. Save Morgan and it will all be fine. So this time he isn’t troubled by rubble pressing onto his shoulders and _come on Spider-Man_. Everything else has been cut away, it’s like being in a fight with no opponent, he’s lead by the same single-minded instinct but the only thing he needs to beat is time.

 

Peter wishes again for nanotech, but he can’t waste Morgan’s precious minutes wishing. The chill of the wind bites harder without the protection of his powers, and almost instantly his fingers feel stiff and sluggish. That’s not acceptable. Peter steps into Harley’s suit and slings the other over his shoulder. The cold is immediately cut off but he can’t allow himself a moment of relief. It’s fine, it’s fine, he can make it fine. He just has to be fast.

 

There’s a small space in Peter’s brain that is screaming. He can hear it distantly as he blasts away at the mountainside, widening the tunnel so he can get through with the suits. Little pieces of stone fly up into the air and snow turns to steam under his repulsors. It’s like he’s pushing all his rage and guilt and grief up against the goddamn mountain and it’s the mountain that shatters.

 

Peter laughs until the rocks are dust and tears stream down his face.

 

***

 

He’s sitting on the floor of the cave with the disassembled suits scattered around him, desperately trying to piece together some kind of long range transmitter that will be picked up by FRIDAY. The helmets glare at him accusatorily, two resentful skulls surrounded by their dismantled metal skeletons.

 

Every few minutes, Peter checks Morgan’s pulse. She’s stopped bleeding but it’s still getting weaker, and the space between her shallow breaths is getting longer. Each one rasps: sand against glass, the end of her lifetimer.

 

Peter finds himself talking to her, describing what he’s doing and asking if she’s seen the components he needs. Hoping against hope for her to pipe up with an eye-roll and the perfect solution to a problem.

 

Of course, she never does.

 

He growls in frustration when his hands won’t stop quivering as he attempts to join two essential wires, twisting them as tightly as his weak arms can manage. Morgan won’t survive if he doesn’t get. It. Together.

 

It takes too long, far too long, but anything other than instantaneous would have been too long. Eventually Peter has in his hands a clunky satellite communicator with a solid forty percent chance of reaching FRIDAY. It transmits using morse code, and as he’s tapping out his call for help Peter can’t help but remember Tony teaching him and Morgan the alphabet of dots and dashes as Nebula tried to hide the interest in her deep dark eyes and Harley smugly showed off his prior knowledge. He remembers the taptaptap of little crescent moon fingernails against the dark wood of Tony’s kitchen table. He remembers the riotous tangle of their laughter as Morgan spelt out her first full word: _S.H.I.T_ . Peter swallows against the sudden hard lump in his throat. It’s better not to think about Morgan’s fingernails, or fingers, or _hands_.

 

Then the message is sent and all he can do is wait. He sits on the ground in the cave, surrounded by Morgan’s cooling and slowly congealing blood, her head in his lap.

 

Morgan’s lips are blue. 

 

Morgan’s breath is shallow. 

 

Morgan’s pulse is faint.

 

Morgan can’t wait.

 

He’s done the math, there’s more blood pooling on the cave floor than a large adult could survive losing, and Morgan is fifteen and small for her age.

 

Peter looks anywhere but her pale, still, foolish, noble, face. This is the third time he’s watched the life leach out of someone he loves. This is the third time it’s been his fault.

 

His gaze flickers from the narrow exit, to the odd stone table where they laid Tony’s body, to the unused fake sacrifice, to the evil fucking spell book that caused all this, to- holy shit the sacrifice. Two pints of Morgan’s blood, medically bagged and preserved and, theoretically, ready for transfusion.

 

Holy shit.

 

By the gap in the wall that used to be the narrow entrance there’s the pile of scraps, all that’s left of their suits. Peter stares at it. He needs a tube and a needle. He can improvise the rest.

 

***

 

Peter watches in horrified fascination as blood flows back into Morgan’s veins. He knows the theory, but he’s not under any illusions about being a qualified medical professional, or a more than meagre chance of success. Still, is he imagining it or is there the slightest pinkish bloom returning to Morgan’s cheeks?

 

He strokes her hair and thinks, really thinks, about the choices they both made that led them here. He should have told Tony the second he caught her in his workshop. The caress of nausea is in his throat. Morgan moved him around like a piece on a chessboard, but he shouldn’t have let her start the game to begin with. He wanted all the strings attached to Tony’s return cut. He chose what he thought was necessary over what he knew was right.

 

Just like Morgan.

 

The nausea takes its opportunity to squeeze. Peter’s throat and stomach contract but he manages to force down the retch. It’s completely illogical, but a bleak corner of his mind is doggedly insisting that he had to give up his powers because he didn’t deserve them anymore.

 

_If you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it._

 

He’s dragged up from his mental dark place by a cough and a weak splutter from Morgan. Her face screws up as she crawls back to consciousness and the pain hits her.

 

“Ow,” she gasps, opening her eyes and looking up at him. “Hey, Pete.”

 

Peter’s tongue feels several sizes too large for his mouth. There’s no way he can manoeuvre it to form words, so he just offers her a watery half-smile.

 

“I’m sorry,” says Morgan.

 

Peter finds his voice. “You don’t need to talk,” he says placatingly.

 

Morgan frowns. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. The words are hoarse, rough and painful like grit pressed into palms. “I was so scared… You didn’t deserve… I’m sorry.”

 

“I know,” says Peter. “I’m sorry too.”

 

Her face, already contorted with suffering, creases with confusion. Peter tries to shift her into a more comfortable position, but as soon as he starts to move she loses the slight colour she’d regained and shakes her head vehemently.

 

“Okay,” says Peter, easing her head back down onto his lap. He attempts to crack a smile. “Sorry again.”

 

“Why?” she asks. “I was the one who- Not important. I needed to tell...” The sentence trails off into rapid little gulps for air.

 

It’s like a shot of liquid nitrogen straight to Peter’s heart. The transfusion should be stopping her going into shock. This shouldn’t be happening.

 

But then none of this should be happening.

 

She stares up at him with large panicked eyes, tears pooling in their corners. He finds her pulse and it’s a tiny fast flutter but not as frantic as he’d expect. Her chest heaves as she pants but as he returns her gaze, Peter realises that Morgan’s pupils aren’t blown.

 

This isn’t shock, it’s an anxiety attack.

 

Instinctively, he reaches out to clasp her hand, then jerks back like he’s been stung. He hopes Morgan didn’t notice that. 

 

“It’s okay, Mo. It’s all gonna be okay,” Peter lies through his teeth.

 

Morgan’s breath catches in her throat. The complete and sudden absence of inhalation and exhalation hits Peter hard, but her eyes are alive and glistening with unconditional trust. Eventually, she lets herself breathe again. The push and flow of air through her lungs is still uneven, but every little puff is steadier than the last.

 

“I know it’s gonna be okay,” she says when she finally can. “I’m with you.”

 

Peter releases one shocked sob before he’s able to stop himself. The noise bursts out of him involuntarily, like an unexpected squeal of breaks.

 

“I needed to say...” Morgan pauses, and her gaze drifts over to the bright crystal ceiling. For a second, wonder joins the pain etched onto her features. Her wandering focus makes Peter’s thoughts stutter in horror, but then she returns her eyes to his. “I needed to say that I’m sorry for using you. I wouldn’t have done it if I thought there was any other way. And that… I wouldn’t hesitate to trade Spider-Man for Iron Man, for _Dad_ , but I don’t think I could have traded Peter Parker.”

 

 _You aren’t worth my Daddy_. Those words have been carved into Peter’s core ever since Morgan said them, a millennia or eleven years ago. With one sentence she wipes them away.

 

“Oh Mo,” says Peter. He doesn’t have any other words in his arsenal. He normally has so many words.

 

Morgan’s eyes slide back to the ceiling. They’ve acquired a detached, glazed look and Peter realises the gargantuan effort it must have required for her to say what she needed to say. Now she’s given up on holding it together, her concentration has scattered and he’s not sure she’s even aware of his presence anymore.

 

She yawns. “Tired,” she mumbles softly.

 

“No, stay awake!” says Peter urgently. “Morgan, please. You need to stay awake!”

 

Of course, she’s not going to start listening to him now. Her eyes close, dark lashes against ashen skin, and she melts into unconsciousness.

 

Peter shivers, this feels like an abandonment. He’s alone. He shivers again. There’s a cold wind blowing through the cave, and without the insulation of his powers or his quickly fading adrenaline high he’s really starting to feel it. Blasting the tunnel quite so wide might not have been the best idea. On this list of his regrets, when he thinks about it that one doesn’t feel as much like a white-hot poker twisting into his liver as some others, so he tries to dwell on that safer failure. 

 

As the temperature drops further and his breath begins to mist the air, the regret gets sharper and the poker grows hotter. He hadn’t even considered freezing to death as a possibility.

 

A wave of hysteria crashes over him and his unhinged shout of laughter sounds like machine-gun fire. At least he doesn’t have to worry about Morgan getting frostbitten fingers.

 

He casts his gaze up to the cave roof, at the glittering dance of refraction caused by its crystals. It’s still beautiful, but what’s even more lovely is the blinking green light on top of the satellite transmitter. It’s FRIDAY, telling him his message was received. He wonders if he’s doomed their rescue to discovering two popsicle people instead of two living idiots. He hopes he survives for Tony to never forgive him for endangering Morgan.

 

Peter doesn’t know who he’s asking, but he sends one word out into the frigid air. “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is gonna be a little different and i already have a lot of it written, but remember kids, this IS tagged angst with a happy ending. you just gotta hold on for it
> 
> i finally got to close all my tabs on blood loss, blood transfusions, and other sanguine subjects!
> 
> as always, please comment i NEEDS them. i’m crap at replying but i always answer dms and messages on tumblr (elphierix.tumblr.com)
> 
> hope i haven’t ruined your day too much!


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